


Fanfic-apalooza

by pen_is_mightier



Category: Fushigi Yuugi, Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Still Star-Crossed (TV), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen, I barely reread these before posting, NaNoWriMo 2020, no beta we die like men, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:01:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28076634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pen_is_mightier/pseuds/pen_is_mightier
Summary: Fanfic from all of you lovely creators here on AO3 has been keeping my sanity intact throughout this crazy hellmouth of a year.So for this year's NaNoWriMo project, the day before November started and without a clear game plan, in the spirit of gratitude, I decided to do multiple ficlets from various fandoms that have been percolating in my brain for years. Some (most) of these will span multiple chapters.Featuring: a couple of Rosvolio stories (Rosaline/Benvolio from Still Star-Crossed); a Pitch Perfect!AU for Gadge (Gale/Madge from Hunger Games); a hand-wavey reincarnation/canon divergence/modern AU of Nakago/Soi from Fushigi Yuugi; a take on Eomer/Lothiriel meeting for the first time (LOTR); and whatever else comes to mind
Relationships: Gale Hawthorne/Madge Undersee, Nakago/Soi (Fushigi Yuugi), Rosaline Capulet/Benvolio Montague, Éomer Éadig/Lothíriel
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	1. Rosvolio: accidental wedding dress shopping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rosaline and Livia are picking out bridesmaid dresses for Juliet's upcoming wedding to Romeo, which somehow leads to Rosaline trying on wedding dresses herself. The backstory here is that Rosaline and Benvolio got drunk and got hitched in Vegas (which is a concept I may expand upon in the future).

“Do you think black bridesmaid dresses look tacky?”

Rosaline glanced up from the salmon-colored tea-length chiffon gown she had taken off the rack to examine more closely. Juliet stood a few racks down, peering at a midnight-dark satin dress with a halter neckline, a doubtful frown furrowing her face.

Not wanting a repeat of the endless back and forth that had happened at the cake tasting last month, Rosaline attempted to gently guide her cousin’s wayward thoughts back on-course. “Black can be tasteful, especially for formal winter weddings. I just thought we were leaning toward blush.”

“We were, we were,” Juliet agreed, flapping a hand emphatically. “But now that I see these dresses in person, they don’t seem so bad. And Mom really had her heart set on a black-tie reception.”

Giuliana may have wanted a formal affair, but Rosaline would be damned if her cousin did not get the whimsical fairy-tale wedding she’d been dreaming about since she was seven years old. Juliet’s mother had hated Rosaline for years, so Ros had absolutely no compunction about going to the mat for Juliet and pushing for the wedding her cousin wanted, not the one that would make Page Six and garner more acclaim for the family, like Giuliana preferred.

“I don’t mind trying both.” Livia, ever the mediator, walked over with a light rose-colored sheath in her arms. “That’s why we’re here, right, Ros?”

Rosaline nodded, working with her sister to ease their cousin’s doubts. That was, after all, the number one job of the Maid of Honor, and Rosaline took her duties seriously. “We’ll model every last dress in the store if that’s what you want, Jules.”

Juliet turned away from the sea of black dresses to giggle at them. “Thanks, but that won’t be necessary.”

“Thank God,” Rosaline replied, deadpan. “The store’s only open for another three hours.”

They all laughed and went back to searching, and Rosaline was pleased to see Juliet’s face wreathed in smiles. If Rosaline had her druthers, that’s how she and Livia would always look.

She may or may not have threatened Romeo with lots of both physical and financial ruin, should he not be the husband Juliet so richly deserved. Knees shaking only a bit, he fervently promised to live only for Juliet’s happiness, and Rosaline had been appeased...for now.

“You guys really aren’t helping narrow down my decision,” Juliet commented as she held up a pretty aqua sheath with cap sleeves in front of Livia, turning her head this way and that to visualize her cousin in it.

Livia obediently held still for Juliet’s machinations. “Why is that, dearest?”

Juliet bit her lip in thought before nodding once decisively. “Here, add that to your pile.” Handing the dress over, she continued, “Your skin is so lovely and offsets every color beautifully. You know if I was the one wearing blush, I’d look washed out and translucent.”

Rosaline snorted. “As if you could.”

Juliet rounded on her. “I’m serious! I could change my wedding colors to sunshine yellow and, like, Jacksonville teal, and you two would still look stunning.”

Digging through her purse for her water bottle, Rosaline murmured, “I’m sorry, did you just reference a sports team? What has Romeo done to you?”

Her cousin slapped Rosaline's arm. “Stop it. I’ve learned to semi-appreciate football.”

Swallowing a mouthful of water, Rosaline offered the bottle to Juliet, who shook her head. “Must be all those free throws.”

Livia laughed. “Not to mention the tight pants!”

That set off the trio of cousins laughing again.

“Sounds like we are having a lot of fun today, ladies!” 

Still giggling, Juliet turned to the brunette woman approaching them. “Oh, hello, Viola!” Rushing forward, Juliet hugged the bridal consultant tightly. Rosaline smiled. The two had bonded last week during Juliet’s wedding gown appointment, leading to Viola picking out the most gorgeous lace-covered A-line gown that Juliet had fallen in love with, and Juliet had insisted that Viola work her magic again, this time on Rosaline and Livia’s bridesmaid dresses. Luckily for them, the bridal salon had had a cancellation, so Viola was able to squeeze the Capulets in.

Well, almost all of them; Giuliana had had an important lunch meeting with an overseas client that simply could not be delayed. She reasoned that her presence was unnecessary for bridesmaid dresses, since she’d already been there to approve the most important dress of all.

Good riddance, Rosaline thought. Already the mood was a thousand times lighter this time around without Giuliana’s judgemental gaze raking across everything, disdain dripping from every pore.

“Let’s start a fitting room, shall we?” Viola whisked the armful of dresses Rosaline and Livia had each collected out of their grasps. “I’ll put these inside for you.”

“Thanks, Viola,” Livia and Rosaline chorused.

“It’s my pleasure!” the consultant chirped, striding away.

“Isn’t she the best?” Juliet sighed, linking arms with each of her cousins.

“Definitely,” Livia agreed.

“We’ll have no problems at all now that Viola’s here.” Rosaline smiled and bussed the side of Juliet’s head.

“None whatsoever. Now, how do you feel about long sleeves?”

Livia and Rosaline exchanged grimaces over Juliet’s head and prepared to convince the bride that sleeves weren’t necessary.

Two hours and 12 dresses later, the Capulets had emerged victorious.

Juliet clapped her hands, her face aglow. “Oh, you two are going to look fabulous!”

Rosaline had to admit that her little cousin had a point. The crepe sheath gowns Juliet had chosen would be a shade lighter than ballet slippers and have chiffon off-the-shoulder sleeves. She picked them because they were, in her words, “the most perfect mix of goddess and fairy.” Personally, Rosaline just thought they looked rather bohemian, but they were pretty, fit well, and showed off their curves to advantage, so she couldn’t complain.

Hugging Viola, Juliet thanked her profusely. While she chattered away with the bridal shop employee, Rosaline stretched her arms over her head with a sigh. Who knew putting dresses on and taking them off repeatedly could be so tiring?

She felt an elbow nudge her side. Turning her head, Rosaline saw Livia smirking at her. “What?”

Livia’s smirk widened. “I saw you admiring that gown in the window over there.”

Rosaline scoffed as she lowered her arms. “It’s a display; it’s supposed to be admired.”

Livia raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Uh huh. If you call ‘drooling,’ admiring, then sure.”

“I was not doing anything of the sort.” As if Rosaline would do anything so pedestrian.

“Yes, you were.”

“No, dear sister, I was not.”

“Were too!”

“Was not!”

“Ladies!” Juliet hurried over. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s nothing,” Rosaline assured her before Livia could claim otherwise. “Just a teensy sisterly spat. Nothing to worry about.”

Juliet looked doubtful, but her cell started chirping and distracted her from her cousins’ fighting. Looking down at it, she squealed, “Romeo’s outside! He wants to get sushi.”

Livia and Rosaline looked at each other and had a moment of silent communication. “You should go,” they both urged Juliet.

“You love sushi,” Livia said, turning Jules toward the door and pushing gently against her back.

“We can finish up here with Viola,” Rosaline chimed in. “We’re practically done, anyway. Go! Have fun.”

Juliet wrapped her arms around them both and squeezed tightly. “I love you both!”

“Love you, too!” came the chorus from the sisters. And with a jaunty wave, Juliet sped out of the shop, eager to be in Romeo’s arms after so long an absence (of six hours).

“You didn’t want to go with them, did you? You love sushi, too.” Livia checked with her older sister.

“I also love breaks from the lovebirds whose non-stop sappy over-the-top affection is enough to put anyone off their meal, even if it is delicious sushi” came the rejoinder.

Livia waltzed over to Viola, who had waved back at Juliet as she exited, and slipped a hand under her elbow. “Good, so we have time, then.”

Viola’s brow crinkled. “Time for what?”

Livia held out a hand to her sister. “Time to see Rosaline in a wedding dress!”

“What?” Rosaline gasped. “No. No way. Not happening!”

Livia and Viola exchanged glances, mischief clear on their faces. Rosaline held up both hands in a STOP motion. “Absolutely not!”

Ten minutes later, Rosaline found herself standing on top of the pedestal in front of the full-length mirror in front of the dressing rooms. Viola had efficiently zipped her into a lacy, mermaid-style gown that hugged and flowed over her chest and hips before fanning out at her knees in a pouf of tulle and then practically shoved her out the door.

“Oh, Rosaline, that’s gorgeous.” Livia’s voice was quiet with awe.

Rosaline couldn’t stop looking at her own reflection. Turning this way and that, she swiveled her hips to get a glimpse of the gown’s low back.

“She’s right,” Viola piped up. “You’re incredible in that. Just look at your curves!”

Rosaline let out a contemplative “hmmm,” still entranced. It was not a style of dress she would ever have thought to pull for herself, but she could definitely see the appeal.

“So what’s all the fuss to see Rosaline in a wedding dress?” the consultant asked Livia. “Is she getting married, too?”

Rosaline ran a hand down her waist, feeling the texture of the lace. When she answered, her tone was distracted. “Actually, I’m already married.”

Confused, Viola sputtered, “But I thought you said this was the first wedding gown you’ve tried on.”

Rosaline very carefully spun in place to regard her. “Oh, it is. My husband and I...eloped spontaneously, so I didn’t really get to do all of this.”

A “spontaneous elopement” was a nice way of putting “got drunk and woke up married in Vegas,” right?

Viola was aghast. “Oh, no! Well, I mean, it was your wedding, so obviously I’m happy for you. But every bride should get the full experience. And I’m not just speaking as a bridal consultant here.”

Livia beamed at her. “See? I knew this was a good idea.”

“What’s a good idea?” A decidedly male voice broke into the proceedings. Rosaline looked over to see Benvolio walking up. Or rather, he had been walking toward them, but he’d caught sight of her and stopped in his tracks, his eyes wide.

“What are you doing here?”

Benvolio didn’t seem to hear Rosaline’s question, his gaze still taking her in. Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she was about to repeat herself when he responded slowly, “Rom said you guys were done, so I came to pick you ladies up, see if you wanted to grab a bite.”

Blinking a few times, he seemed to regain some composure. Stepping closer, he came to a stop next to the pedestal. “Not that I’m complaining - and I’m really, really not - but I thought Juliet was supposed to be the one wearing the white dress.”

When he looked up to meet her gaze, Rosaline almost gasped at the combined amazement and heat in his very blue eyes. In a surprisingly even voice, she answered, “Juliet found her dress last week. We were just..” She fumbled to a stop. What were they doing?

“Just making sure that Juliet wasn’t the only married lady having all the fun,” Livia finished. “After all, Ros missed out on this when you guys tied the knot.”

That was an understatement if Rosaline had ever heard one. Quirking a brow at her, it seemed Benvolio agreed, but he remained silent.

“Do you want to try on a veil?” Viola asked, breaking the weird tension Benvolio’s gaze was causing his wife.

Involuntarily, Rosaline’s nose wrinkled a bit at the question. Benvolio noticed and chuckled. “Think that’s a no to the veil.”

“Oh, you don’t like this one?”

Benvolio let Rosaline answer the consultant. “It’s a beautiful dress, really.”

Viola sighed. “I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

“It’s not really my style.” This time it was Rosaline’s turn to look devious. “Although I’m really glad I tried it on, if only to make this one’s jaw drop.” With a roguish wink, she gestured to her husband.

Viola and Livia let out surprised squeals of laughter as Benvolio’s face pinkened. Encouraged by his blush, Rosaline continued. “He is quite fond of my...assets, shall we say.”

“More like just the one, really.” Never let it be known that Benvolio didn’t give as good as he got, which was mainly the reason Rosaline enjoyed verbally sparring with him so much (not that she would ever tell him that). Boldly, he slipped his hands around her waist and gently lifted her off the pedestal to set her on the ground. They were pretty much plastered chest to knee then, but Rosaline couldn’t muster the energy to care at the moment, since Benvolio was looking at her like she was the belle of the ball. With a lopsided grin, he softly dropped his forehead onto hers and they breathed together for a long moment, Rosaline’s hands resting on his chest.

A camera shutter sound interrupted them, and they glanced over at Livia, who had her phone pointed at them. “I have no regrets,” she announced.

Still holding Rosaline’s waist, Benvolio stroked his thumbs up the lace as he craned his head to look at Viola. “Do you have any Hayley Paige gowns?”

Both Livia and Viola’s eyebrows shot up. “You know who Hayley Paige is?” Livia wondered aloud.

Benvolio removed one hand from his wife to rub at the back of his neck, his grin turning sheepish.

“Oh my God, Rosaline totally makes you watch Say Yes to the Dress with her, doesn’t she?” Livia gasped.

Ignoring his sister-in-law, Benvolio addressed Viola. “Something like the Banksy?”  
He valiantly ignored Livia’s crowing of “Oh my God, he knows the names!” in the background.

Viola grinned. “I have just the thing. Give me just a second to go grab it.”

“You told him what kind of dress you like, Ros?”

Rosaline had been looking at Benvolio, her brow furrowed. “Actually, no, I didn’t. Explain yourself, Montague.”

Benvolio tapped her nose with his index finger. “You always pay more attention to the ball gowns.”

Well, Rosaline couldn’t argue with that; it was the truth.

“Ugh, you two are going to push Romeo and Juliet out of the running for Smoopiest Couple Ever if you keep on like that.” Livia didn’t sound too upset at the notion; rather she seemed quite pleased.

Rosaline, on the other hand, realized that she and Benvolio had been wrapped around each other for quite some time now. Under the guise of smoothing the skirt of her dress, she backed up a step and turned to her sister. “Smoopiest? Is that even a real word?”

“Yes, and it means exactly what it sounds like,” Livia shot back.

Before they could start another spat, Viola called Rosaline over to the dressing room. Ros gathered her skirt up as best she could and strode away. If she put a teensy extra swing in her hips, well, that was her prerogative. The sound of a punched-out breath behind her told her the effort was duly noticed by her husband, and she grinned to herself. This outing was shaping up to be a lot of fun.

“Okay, she’s coming out - cover your eyes,” Viola called out several minutes later.

“Seriously?” Benvolio complained, putting a hand over his eyes begrudgingly. “We’re not actually on the show right now.”

Livia pinched his arm hard from where she sat next to him on the small sofa set up before the mirror. “Full. Bridal. Experience,” she declared, closing her own eyes.

“All right, all right, geez.”

They both heard the rustling of fabric as Rosaline came out of the dressing room. “Now can we look?” Benvolio asked.

“So impatient,” Rosaline muttered.

“To see my beautiful wife? Yes, yes, I am.”

Even though he wasn’t looking at her, she still ducked her head while Viola cooed, “So sweet!” in the background as she spread out Rosaline’s train.

“Okay, you guys can open your eyes,” Viola addressed the other two. They both looked up to see Rosaline standing before them, swathes of ivory tulle and satin nipping in at her waist and then cascading to the floor. Floral appliques with pearl centers dotted the bodice and tapered off as they reached the skirt. The dress was gorgeous, but Rosaline made it absolutely stunning.

“That one is perfect,” Livia breathed.

Benvolio got to his feet and circled Rosaline, his gaze traveling up, down and all over for a moment before he shook his head, stopping next to her. “Nearly perfect.”

Rosaline swatted at his arm, since he was now within reach. “Stop reading my mind, it’s creepy.”

He raised his eyebrows at her, unrepentant. “Isn’t that supposed to be my job, sweetheart?”

Rosaline staunchly ignored the warmth his pet name caused. “Ugh, you’re impossible.”

“I think you mean irrepressible.”

“How is that better?” Livia wondered aloud to Viola, who shrugged in reply, at a loss. Turning to her sister, Livia demanded to know what was wrong with the dress. From where Livia was sitting, Rosaline looked like the ideal bride, but the slight crease between her brows told a different story.

“The neckline is a little too low,” Benvolio pointed out.

Livia frowned. “I thought you’d be on board with that.”

Benvolio rolled his eyes. “Not when it makes Capulet uncomfortable.”

Rosaline let out a huff. “Seriously, get out of my head.” She turned to look at herself in the mirror. “It truly is a fantastic gown, Viola. But he’s right about the neckline.”

“It’s really not that low, Ros,” Livia insisted. “At least it’s not plunging to your belly button a la JLo.”

Benvolio’s eyes glazed over as he stared absently at her reflection, and Rosaline immediately spun on her heel to cover his eyes with both hands. “Stop visualizing that.”

His voice was noticeably deeper as he rasped, “Make me.” Blindly, he reached out to grab her waist and pull her toward him once more.

“I would tell you two to get a room, but we generally frown on people copulating in our dressing rooms.” Viola’s wry voice reminded Rosaline that they weren’t alone. Clearing her throat, she admonished Benvolio, hissing, “Behave” before releasing him. She put out an imperious hand, and Benvolio automatically took it to help her step down from the pedestal. 

“Do you want to try on another one?”

Her stomach growled its displeasure before she could answer. He grinned. “Or maybe we should call it a day and go eat instead? We can go to the noodle house, get some sushi in you and get some ramen for Livia.”

“Maybe you should forget about the art thing. I think you’d make a killing on the psychic hotline.” Rosaline jabbed his chest with her finger. “It’s uncanny, really.”

“Nah, you’re just easy to read. Like Dr Seuss,” Benvolio teased, catching her hand and pressing it to his lips.

She sucked in a breath at his action but quickly rejoined, “Oh, so you can read - I had my doubts.”

“Ha ha, Capulet, very funny.”

Reclaiming her hand, she blew on her nails and pretended to buff them on her bodice. She strove to ignore the way his grip subconsciously tightened around her as his eyes followed her hand. “I know I am.” Was it her imagination, or was the salon getting warmer?

“Wow, he really is a great husband,” Viola murmured to Livia as they watched the couple’s antics. 

Livia couldn’t help smiling softly. “You have no idea.” And neither does Rosaline, she thought. But maybe that would change in time. From the way her sister and brother-in-law looked at each other, Livia didn’t think it would be long at all.


	2. Gadge: Pitch Perfect AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When his best friend Katniss joins an acappella group, Gale thinks it's the stupidest thing ever. Then he finds out who else has joined: Madge Undersee.  
> Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I seen Pitch Perfect a few too many times? Yes  
> Is this fic as an excuse to find/make up punny acappella group names and force HG characters to sing their hearts out? Also yes

For some people, the arrival of cooler temperatures was the best part of the year. Green leaves turned fiery, then fell to the ground as the crisp bite of winter took hold. Girls chattered excitedly about “scarf and sweater” weather, showing off new boots and drinking hot chocolate, while guys compared fantasy football teams and wore enough flannel to clothe an entire country of lumberjacks.

Gale was decidedly not one of these people. For him, the cold had always equaled hardship for the Hawthornes.

Cold meant Posy and their mom shivering together in their mom’s bed, trying to share body warmth. Cold meant Vick and Rory wearing nearly every shirt they had, layered one on top of the other, underneath their sweatshirts for the walks to and from school. Cold meant Gale working three jobs after school to keep their electricity turned on.

When Capitol Industries had reached a settlement with District 12 Mining Corporation, the Hawthornes had been just one of the dozens of families awarded reparations for the mine collapse that had killed Asher Hawthorne and too many other fathers. After years of struggling to make someone, anyone listen, the mining families had finally gotten word out to the press, and Capitol had given in.

Gale had wanted the bastards all put in jail, but Hazelle had put a hand on his arm and said, “Everyone knows who they are now, what kind of people they are and the business they run. It’s enough, Gale. It’s enough.”

It wasn’t enough for Gale, not by a long shot, but it was enough for them to move to the suburbs, into a house with enough bedrooms for all five of them - although Gale’s was more of bedroom/study/library - where they had both heat and air conditioning all the time.

That was seven years ago, but every time fall came around, Gale remembered having to try to fall asleep with his hands shoved underneath his armpits, even while wearing his threadbare leather gloves. Of course, he was glad his family no longer had to suffer the cold, but he was sure he would never not hate any season that wasn’t summer as long as they lived in Panem.

Besides, how the hell was a guy supposed to admire a girl’s legs when they were buried beneath all those layers, anyhow?

His phone beeped like R2-D2, signaling a new text. He ignored it, didn’t glance down to where it lay on the window seat next to him. He’d been staring out at the backyard, watching the leaves spiral to the ground as the wind whistled through the branches.

Katniss would say he was brooding, but fuck that. He didn’t brood.

The droid speech sounded again, and again, a moment later. Huffing an exasperated breath, Gale flipped his iPhone over and prodded at the screen.

_performing tomorrow_   
_will u come watch_   
_know it’s not your thing_

Gale scoffed. Damn straight it wasn’t. There was no way in hell he’d willingly drag himself to some sort of namby-pamby singing show.

Even if it was Katniss asking.

No way.

Another beep.

_there’ll be free food_

Gale rolled his eyes.

More beeps.

_quit rolling your eyes_   
_we’re college students_   
_we can’t say no to free food_   
_it’s a rule_

“Try me,” he told his phone.

Another beep.

_madge will be there_

Gale stared at the screen for a long moment before slamming it back down on the seat cushion.

“Goddammit.”

Gale had known Katniss since he was six and she was four, and they’d been friends for nearly as long. Their fathers had worked in the mines together. One day at lunch they struck up a conversation, and soon they were swapping stories about their kids. At Asher’s insistence, Reed Everdeen brought his family over for dinner, little Katniss, long dark hair in braided pigtails, so serious even then, and baby Primrose, tucked up tight in Clara’s arms.

At first, Katniss had wanted nothing to do with Gale, and Rory was just a toddler, too young to play. It wasn’t like Gale wanted to hang out with a four-year-old either; she was barely older than Rory, and he was so annoying and whiny all the time, Gale couldn’t stand it. She was probably just the same. He ignored her in favor of working on his new lure. Asher had promised to take him fishing the next day, so Gale studiously wrapped wire around his little neon yellow plastic lure, attaching feathers so the fish would be attracted to the movement in the water. Hazelle had protested the first time they’d gone, but Asher didn’t see the harm. “My father took me fishing when I was his age, younger even. You wouldn’t deprive me of some quality time with my son, would you?”

As usual, Asher could cajole and tease and flirt with Hazelle until she relented. All Gale cared about then was that she said yes. Then he could spend quiet mornings with his dad, watching the sun sparkle on the river water, listening to the burbling of the river. 

It wasn’t until Katniss noticed the bookshelf in the Hawthorne’s living room that Gale paid her any attention. Sticking his tongue out as he concentrated, he focused on winding the wire just so. A book clattering onto the table made him jump. He looked up to see Katniss staring at him.

“What?” If Hazelle had heard him, she would have spanked him for being rude, but since she was busy finishing up the mashed potatoes, Gale was secure in the knowledge he could bark at this strange girl invading his home without repercussion.

“I have this book at my house.” It was the first time she’d spoken all night, and Gale was surprised at the sound of her voice. He glanced down at the cover: Frog and Toad Are Friends. Toad sat reading a book aloud, while Frog listened intently, arms resting on his knees, with one hand under his chin.

“Can you even read? You’re a baby.”

Her frown grew. “No, I’m not! Prim’s a baby. I’m a big girl.”

Gale rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

Her little face had started to turn red and he scrambled to get away, to find something else to do in the living room away from her so he wouldn’t get blamed for the inevitable explosion of bawling.

To his surprise, Katniss only glared at him silently, snatching up the book and marching away to clamber up onto the couch so she could sit next to her mom. Clara carefully set Prim into Katniss’ arms, and Katniss “read” to her, showing her all the pictures as best she could, even though Prim was fast asleep. Gale figured Katniss had heard the book enough times to remember the storylines and figure out what was happening by looking at the pictures, so he was mildly surprised to hear her actually reading, if haltingly.

Whatever. As long as he didn’t have to talk to her, he didn’t care what she did with his book. He liked Danny and the Dinosaur better. Satisfied, Gale settled back at his seat and continued working on his lure.

The next couple of times that they had dinner with the Everdeens went pretty much the same way - Gale would occupy himself, and Katniss would sit with Prim. It wasn’t until the Hawthornes got invited to the Everdeens’ house that something changed.

Hazelle and Clara sat on the Everdeen’s sofa, each holding a baby in their laps, letting Prim and Rory see each other, tiny hands waving about. Both mothers were cooing ridiculous baby talk that made Gale’s lip curl in distaste. Katniss skipped over to her mom, a DVD clenched in her fist.

“Can we watch Totoro?”

Gale couldn’t help perking up at Katniss’ question. _My Neighbor Totoro_ was one of his favorite movies.

“Oh, Gale loves that movie.” Hazelle smiled at Katniss and looked at Clara. “Would it be all right with you?”

“Of course! We have to wait for the roast to finish, anyway.” Clara handed Prim over to Katniss and quickly set up the movie.

Reed stuck his head in from where he and Asher were lounging in the kitchen, drinking beer. “Oh, so you’re sticking us with the rest of the food prep?”

Clara reclaimed Prim and settled next to Hazelle. “I think we can trust you not to give us charcoal poisoning, honey.”

Hazelle coughed to cover a chuckle, and Clara winked at her. Grumbling good-naturedly, Reed retreated, leaving them to their movie.

Gale and Katniss seated themselves on the carpet in front of their mothers’ feet, Gale leaning back on his hands, while Katniss folded her legs under herself like a pretzel. They watched in silence for a while until the soot sprites came dancing onto the screen. Leaning close, Katniss gently poked him. “Those guys are my favorite.”

He grudgingly admitted they were pretty cool. “I like the catbus.”

Katniss nodded. “But Totoro’s the best.”

Gale glanced over at her, but she was entranced by the television screen. “Yeah,” he replied softly. “Totoro’s the best.”

Maybe the Everdeens weren’t so bad after all, he thought.

And the rest, as they say, is history; they’d been best friends ever since. So Katniss knew just how to needle him into doing shit he didn’t want to, like attend her acappella group’s first performance of the season.

He groaned; they even referred to it as a “season,” like they were a damn sports team or something.

Seeing Madge in all of her golden glory should not have been reason enough for Gale to risk his reputation being seen at an acappella event, but apparently he was more of a goner for her than he thought.

Besides, Katniss would say, people who cared about stupid things like reputations in college were clinging to high school delusions of grandeur instead of accepting the reality that there was a level playing field when everyone had to pay to attend class and they all had the same goal of pursuing a degree, so he should really grow up and get over that shit.

It’s possible that she was getting more out of her Psychology class this semester than was good for her. Not that Gale was going to tell her that.

He zipped up his leather jacket as he strode over to the mirror hanging behind his bedroom door. Running a hand through his hair, he turned his head this way and that, making sure it lay where it was supposed to. Grimacing, he sighed, “What the fuck am I doing.”

Big blue eyes flashed through his mind. He grabbed his cologne and sprayed his chest once. “Not like she’ll even notice,” he muttered. All right, that was enough wallowing. “Let’s get this goddamn show on the road.”

-.-.-.-

Across town, Madge’s arms were starting to ache a little as she wove her hair into a French braid. The single braids that marched down the back of your head to your neck were the hardest to do on yourself, but since Madge was the only one who could actually do a French braid, there was no one to ask to do it for her.

She’d already braided all of the other girls’ hair, although why Finnick had demanded this specific hairstyle was anyone’s guess. Sometimes, he went overboard on the whole “team leader” thing, Madge mused to herself. He was easygoing most of the time, but when it came to acappella competitions, he really reminded her of the highly-strung, will-do-anything-to-win, kinda douchey lead cheerleader character from that Disney Channel movie with zombies and cheerleaders trying to coexist.

Madge wasn’t ashamed to admit that she had watched the movie twice in the first week it started airing on cable. Yes, she might be turning 20 this year, but Disney was an ageless franchise as far as she was concerned. Plus, now that they owned Star Wars, technically everyone was a Disney fan, no matter how old they were. Plus, those zombie songs were freaking earworms. And super sweet. A supernatural-flavored Hallmark movie for the younger crowd and the young-at-heart. And don’t get her started on that Descendants series - fairy tale retellings were Madge’s jam.

“Need any help?” Katniss’ head popped into frame in Madge’s mirror reflection, hovering over her left shoulder.

“‘M almost done,” Madge managed to mumble around the bobby pins she was holding between her lips. She finally reached the end of her braid and quickly tied it off with a hair band. Smoothing the strands, she tucked away a few flyaways and secured them with her pins. “There. How do I look?”

“Like me” came the response, deadpan. “But blonder.”

It wasn’t a lie, since they were all wearing identical uniforms of pale blue button downs with black jeans and Converse.

“You mean, I’m fugly now,” Madge teased, ducking as Katniss threw a comb at her in retaliation. “I’m kidding, don’t hurt me!”

Giggling, they batted at each other until a piercing whistle rang through the bedroom the team had appropriated as a dressing room. “Gather round, Seekers!” Finnick waved everyone over to where he stood in the middle of the room, hands on his hips. The fact that his position made his biceps bulge was probably why he did it so much. Madge often thought that if she were to look up “peacocking” in the dictionary, there would be a photo of Finnick’s admittedly model-worthy face. Even if he had to glue it in himself.

She and Katniss wandered closer and clumped together with the rest of the group. “Brace yourself for another Finnick Odair motivational speech,” Delly breathed into Madge’s ear while Annie momentarily distracted their fearless leader by smoothing out his collar. Madge clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles. This may have been the first year that the three of them had been on the team, but Finnick seemed to spout speeches the same way people gave their coffee orders, and sometimes it seemed he did so with the same frequency.

Annie, finally satisfied with Finnick’s appearance, drifted over to stand in front of him with the rest of the group. Finnick looked at each of them in the eye and cleared his throat. Madge readied herself for what would no doubt be a booming, inspirational speech, filled with many metaphors and much hand-waving.

Finnick opened his mouth, looked askance for a moment, shut it, and then reopened it. “You know what, fuck it.”

Delly gasped, and Madge was sure everyone on the team was staring wide-eyed at Finnick, just like she was.

He shook his head shortly. “Nah, we don’t need a speech. We’re damn good, and we know it. So let’s just go out there and kick ass.”

Annie, who’d been smiling dreamily as she usually was, clapped her hands suddenly, startling the rest of them. “Let’s kick some ass!”

Madge couldn’t help the involuntary giggle that escaped her; hearing Annie curse was like finding a dodo bird in the jungle, especially said in her soft voice. Even Finnick seemed taken aback, blinking down at her twice before regaining his composure. Turning his toothpaste commercial-ready grin up to 11, he stuck out his hand. “Trill Seekers, on three!”

Laughing, everyone gathered in close to put their hands in the middle of the circle. Bobbing their hands up and down once, twice, thrice, they lifted them and cried, “Goooo, Trill Seekers!”

As the group broke up, Madge hooked her elbow around Katniss’. They watched as Annie stepped in close to Finnick, her hands coming to rest on his chest. His smile turned tender as he lowered his forehead to rest on hers. “That may have been your best speech yet,” Annie murmured.

“Think I’ve gotten the hang of it now,” he joked, his hands sliding around her waist to embrace her.

“Only took you four years,” she teased back.

“Ugh, they’re so cute together, it makes me want to puke,” Katniss mumbled to Madge. They turned to troop out of the room with the others, letting Annie and Finnick have some privacy.

“Just as long as you don’t do it before we sing. That’ll mess up your throat and we can’t have our best singer performing at less than 100%,” Madge answered.

“Ha ha,” Katniss said dryly.

The Seekers made their way to the wings of the makeshift stage. Performances in actual auditoriums only took place for higher-level competitions, and this was basically a warm-up event at a joint fraternity/sorority welcome party for new members. Tone Down for What seemed to be wrapping up their set, which meant the Seekers would be next.

“I do have to admit I’m jealous of them, though,” Madge muttered, leaning close to Katniss’ ear so her friend could hear her over Tone Down’s cover of Justin Bieber’s “Yummy.”

“Who, Annie and Finnick?” Katniss wrinkled her nose a bit. “That’s too much of a mouthful. What would their couple name be...Annick?”

Madge snorted. “You’ve been reading Malec fanfiction again, haven’t you?”

“Yup.” Katniss wasn’t even ashamed. Madge wasn’t, either, come to think of it. She definitely had gone down a fanfic rabbit hole last weekend after she had binged Yuri on Ice and immediately needed stories about Yuri and Victor getting together and being adorable skating boyfriends in Russia. Delly had been telling her for ages that she would like it, and so Madge had finally watched one episode and then promptly could not stop until she reached the end.

“Seriously, though,” Madge continued. “It’d be nice to have someone, you know? Except all the guys we know are...that.” She grimaced as she pointed to the stage, where the Toners seemed to all be pelvic thrusting in unison, to the screams of the girls up front near the stage.

“Neanderthals?”

“Yeah.”

Katniss looked thoughtful for a moment. 

“What?”

“What?” Now Katniss looked confused, but Madge wasn’t buying it.

“I don’t like that look on your face.”

Katniss smoothed her features into a more neutral expression. “There’s no look.”

“Yes, there is. That’s your scheming look.” Madge gripped Katniss’ arm. “Please do not tell me you’re trying to set me up with someone.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She tried to pull her arm free, but Madge wasn’t having it.

“Ladies!” Finnick had caught up to them, and his harsh whisper cut into their argument. “Get your heads in gear.”

Mumbling, “Sorry” they lined up with the others, ready to take their places onstage. Madge caught Katniss’ eye and mouthed _This isn’t over_ , and her friend in turn pretended she didn’t see her.

Then their group was being announced and it was time to get down to business. _To defeat the Huns_ , Madge sang to herself in her head, her silliness brightening her camera-ready smile as she trooped out onstage with the others.

Acappella groups ranged in various sizes for collegiate competitions, and the Trill Seekers were on the lower end of the spectrum. They currently had seven members: Finnick, Annie, Darius (all three of whom would be graduating this year), Thresh (the only junior), Katniss, Delly, and Madge herself, who had all been in the same classes in school since Madge moved to Panem in sixth grade. Sometimes being pitted against the larger groups was a bit intimidating, but Madge thought of Pentatonix’s international success and wide range in spite of their smaller numbers versus a bigger group like Straight No Chaser and thought the Seekers did pretty well for themselves.

At least they didn’t have to resort to gyrating their genitals at the judges in order to entice them to give them a better score like Tone Down for What; the Seekers were talented enough vocally, and Finnick cracked the whip and made sure they worked their asses off so their choreography would be sharp and clean, even if it wasn’t necessarily composed of the most difficult moves out there. He and Annie choreographed together, her childhood ballet background and current modern major and his Cotillion ballroom lessons ensuring the steps had a solid foundation. Madge’s not-so-closeted obsession with Kpop added some hip hop flair, and when all was said and done, the Seekers at least moved cohesively and on beat.

Finnick took his place center stage and the rest of the Seekers fanned out to either side of him. Madge and Katniss crouched down on opposite sides of the stage, while Thresh and Darius stood with their arms around Delly and Annie, respectively, in a classic waltz hold. Today’s performance literally had the hip hop and ballroom worlds colliding, so they were going to play that up in the choreography. Madge caught Katniss’ eye and flashed her a discreet thumbs up. Katniss wasn’t the best dancer and accepted that about herself, but she still got a little nervous performing, even after a year of being a Seeker.

Annie raised a pitch pipe up to her lips and blew into it, emitting a low _tweee_ sound. “One, two, three, four,” she counted.

The seven of them inhaled deeply and prepared to dazzle.


	3. Soi/Nakago: reincarnation/alternate canon AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She thought she was just a regular woman, living a normal life with the man she loved. She was wrong.  
> Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always thought Soi's relationship with Nakago was tragic. As the sole female warrior (at least for Suzaku/Seiryuu), she definitely deserved better.
> 
> Disclaimer: It's been at least 15 years since I've watched Fushigi Yuugi, so you'll forgive me if things are a bit hand-wavey/not canon compliant/moved around a bit due to my lack of memory of the order of events.

The dream always begins the same way.

First she hears the shouts, the screams, the cries of men in battle, swords clanking against one another, the rasp of blades tearing through leather armor, the gurgles of the dying. Then came the smells - blood, sweat, vomit, urine. The stench is overpowering and made her want to fall to her knees.

She can’t fall, she tells herself, she can’t fall. If she does, she’ll never get up again.

She opens her eyes to chaos and carnage. Soldiers in red armor attack in waves, but blue-suited soldiers viciously parry every time. A red soldier charges at her, yelling indistinctly - she could not understand the words but she knew he wanted to kill her. Her arms come up to block his blow, then parry, then slide under his arm to stab her sword through the heart.

It frightens her how easy, how automatic the motions were. Like her arms were trained to fight, trained to defend.

Trained to kill.

Those weren’t her arms. Couldn’t be.

...Could they?

An elegant-looking man, dressed in far more elaborate armor than the rest, stands some fifty feet away from her. The look on his face is determined, resolute, and his brown eyes are hard as steel.

She’s too far away to see his eyes. But she knows, knows to a certainty, that they’re golden brown. How, how can she know?

He shouts at her, and once more she couldn’t comprehend the words. It did not matter; his hate is visceral. She feels it from where she stands.

There is a low murmur next to her. She doesn’t turn, cannot look, but she hears the voice, smooth, velvety, and dark. Here, too, is hate, sinuous and smug. Taunting.

The handsome man in red apparently lets himself be goaded, since he spurs his white horse - just like a prince, she thinks - toward her, toward the owner of that darkly seductive voice.

A man’s arm, covered in thick blue armor lifts toward the red-draped rider galloping toward them - she sees it in her peripheral vision, since her gaze had not, could not move from looking straight ahead. The man’s hand opens lazily, a careless gesture, palm pointing toward the rider. The world suddenly becomes awash in blue, blue like white-hot flame, burning, pulsing, shooting forth...from his hand? 

Blue light pouring from his hand? That couldn’t be right. This was just a dream. Weird shit happened in dreams all the time.

Sometimes she woke up then, blue still blazing behind her eyelids when she blinked. Sometimes the dream continued.

Tonight is one of those nights.

Blue everywhere. The sonic boom of an explosion. The prince, blown backwards by the force of all that blue. Helmet gone, long strands of beryl-green hair spilling forth.

Those golden brown eyes, closed. Forever.

Not forever, something whispers. Just for now.

Other men rush to the fallen warrior’s side, anguish distorting their faces. One, red-haired with teeth like fangs, roars like a raging lion, his arm shooting out from his side to throw his sword like a spear. Toward her...no, to the man, the man with the blue and the light and the voice.

Her body moves without her permission, spinning and shoving. Shielding, she realizes.

Pain erupts in her back and whips through her like lightning. There’s a face in front of her - cream and gold - but the agony ripping her body apart steals her breath, dims her vision.

She always wakes up then, body tense, all of her muscles locked in a defensive move to try to safeguard her from the torturous ache, her mouth open in a silent scream. Sometimes tears slide down her cheeks and she never knows if they are grief for the brown-eyed prince or herself.

Tonight she feels the tears welling, but she blinks them back, refusing to let them fall. It’s only a dream. No need for such histrionics.

She lays there, chest heaving with each panting breath, staring up at the ceiling. A motorcycle passes by, its engine growling, somewhere on the street below, ten floors down. The hustle of the city night life, just barely audible from this bedroom, rumbles on, dully fading into white noise in the background.

Slowly, slowly, the minutes tick by and her breath eases and her muscles relax. It was just a dream. Nothing more.

A sigh breaks the near-silence. Turning her head, she glances over to the sleeping form beside her. He would never do anything so pedestrian as snore, but sometimes he sighed or turned over in his sleep.

If he ever dreamed, she never knew. He would never tell her such a thing, let alone do something as stupid as cry about it.

He sleeps facing her, his handsome features dignified even in slumber. An unfairly beautiful man, with his crystal blue eyes and gilded hair long enough to brush broad shoulders. She looks down at his hand, topped with long, tapered fingers. It rests just next to her waist. Watching his face for any sign of wakefulness, she carefully slips her fingers around his, breathing for five long inhales. When there is no reaction, she lifts with the slightest bend of her wrist and slides both their hands over her abdomen.

Still nothing from him.

She gently disentangles her fingers and lays back completely. He doesn’t move. With her own sigh of happiness, she rests her hand atop his and closes her eyes.

She always slept better cradled in his arms.

Weeks later, and she’s all but forgotten the dream. Once she’d gone an entire year and half without seeing the blood, hearing the screams. She hopes this reprieve would last, too.

Today is their anniversary. Not of the day they started dating - they’d fallen into a relationship so quickly that she could never pinpoint the exact date. They had coffee one day, went to dinner another, and then it was like she had blinked and she was living in his apartment, making him bento lunches like a housewife and talking about getting a dog.

But the first time she saw him - that day she remembers. How could she not? That was the day he swooped in like a white knight and saved her from an inebriated, infuriated customer. The drunken man had trapped her in the corner of an alley, his hands tearing at her skirt and his stinking whiskey-laden breath suffocating her.

Then his head was snapping to the side from a single punch, and his nerveless fingers let go of her as he dropped to the ground, knocked out completely.

Breath trembling, body shaking, she had looked up at her savior and thought an angel had come down from heaven. A cliche if ever there was one (she knows better now, and ruminates on the inanity of her fear-driven delusion), but who could blame her - with his piercing eyes, golden hair, powerful frame, and a face so handsome it could have been carved by Lucifer himself - all the better to tempt you, my dear.

He was not the sort of man who simply “made an impression;” no, rather, he consumed, commanded, controlled every last bit of attention just by walking into a room.

Her fragile heart was no match. But she succumbed willingly, so willingly. She never could have imagined that such a god would look at her, would deign to acknowledge her.

He saved her and walked away without a single glance back. She thought that she would never see him again.

Some weeks later she was taking out the trash, grumbling under her breath about lazy coworkers who only wanted to sip (not brew!) coffee and flirt with customers. Those same coworkers hadn’t bothered to empty the trash the day before, and so she shuffled along, arms straining under the added weight. She had nearly reached the dumpster when a hand flicked back the trash lid with ease. Gaping, her eyes followed that arm to a shoulder to a neck to a familiar, devastatingly handsome face.

She could only blink at him in astonishment. He huffed out something that might have been amusement and deftly flipped both bags into the bin, the lid falling shut with a clang that made her jump.

“Coffee?”

With one word, spoken with a silver tongue, she was lost.

“Can I get you anything else tonight? A dessert menu? More wine?”

She smiles up at the waiter, brown-haired and eager to please. He must not have been working here long; his enthusiasm shone like a brand new penny. She much preferred the smooth, calm competence of their usual waiter, but it is his day off. “One chocolate cake, with two forks, please.”

“Right away, miss!” She watches, idly amused as he rabbits off back to the kitchen.

“You know I don’t eat sweets.” He doesn’t look up from where he is typing on his phone - an urgent email that could not be delayed in answering, of course.

She leans toward him, knowing the cut of her neckline would fall at an enticing angle. “Hmm, I don’t think that’s true.” She affects a pout and lowers her voice for only his ears, her eyes flashing with mischief. “I know for a fact that there’s at least one sweet thing you do eat.” 

His fingers pause on the touchscreen of his phone. But it’s only a split second before they start moving again.

“You seem to enjoy eating it. Almost as much as I do.”

His cerulean eyes are fixed upon the screen, but there’s a slight movement at his temples as he clenches his teeth. Her grin widens. She wants those eyes on her, looking at her, staring into her soul.

“Sweet and juicy. So juicy, you make such a mess every time,” she playfully admonishes him.

She watches him swallow convulsively, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees their waiter scurrying back, plate in hand. She settles back in her seat as he arrives at their table. He brandishes the cake with a flourish. “I present your dessert, sir, miss.”

Her mouth quirks up in a half-grin. “Thank you, that will be all.”

“Of course.” She bet he would click his heels together if the management would let him. As it was, he offers them a respectful bow and disappears.

She reaches out to pull the plate closer to herself. The second fork was just to be polite. Slicing off a small piece, she takes a bite and lets her eyes drift closed as she savors the dark chocolate melting on her tongue.

“Kaen.”

Chocolate could not compare to the silk of her name coming from his mouth. Her eyes open to meet his intense ocean-blue gaze. Raising an impish eyebrow, she slowly slides the fork out from between her lips. As her tongue sweeps her bottom lip to lap up stray bits of chocolate, those blue eyes drop to follow the movement.

“It’s your favorite fruit, ne?”

His eyes flick up to hers once more, and it’s his turn to raise an imperious eyebrow.

“Peaches. Sweet, juicy peaches, ripe in the summer. They drip everywhere and make a mess when you bite them. I don’t like them as much as you, but they’re your favorite, right?” When he doesn’t answer, the corners of her mouth lift in a devious smirk. “Why, what did you think I was talking about?”

Annoyance clashes with desire in those cerulean eyes. She just grins and takes another bite of her delicious dessert. Asks mildly, “Do you want some, honey?”

If anyone else was looking at him, they probably saw his casual lean and idle fingers playing with the stem of his wineglass and thought him unaffected; only she was close enough to see his eyes, see his hunger.

But not for cake. For her.

Delight suffuses her even as lust winds its way down low in her belly. She reaches into her purse to set a small wrapped gift in front of him. She knows he wants to leave, wants to get away from prying eyes and get his hands on her, but she drags it out a little more.

Patience, after all, is a virtue. Don’t they say good things come to those who wait?

He frowns down at it. “What’s this?”

Annoyance pricks the heady bubble of lust clouding her head. She answers slowly, each word deliberate. “An anniversary present.”

His frown deepens. “That’s not for another two months.”

She rolls her eyes. Men. Honestly. “It’s the anniversary of the day we met, Yada-kun.”

Even after all this time, sometimes it feels odd to say his name, or rather his nickname. His full name is too much of a mouthful for her tongue. Thank god he was fluent in Japanese; her English was barely comprehensible.

But sometimes his name...feels wrong in her mouth, sounds wrong. Like it should be something else.

It’s a silly thought. It’s his name! What else would she call him?

Although sometimes she calls him “yeobo” in Korean - because she’s addicted to Korean dramas, they’re so much better than Japanese ones! - just to see his face scrunch in irritation. It makes her laugh.

“Hnn.” He lets out a small sound...of acknowledgement, she guesses. “Our coffee date.”

She snorts. “No, before then.” He is meticulously unwrapping the gift, pulling the tape gently so the paper doesn’t tear. He does not look up from his task, single-minded as he is in all things. Still. He should know better by now. “When you saved me.”

“Saved you?” The question is soft, absentmindedly spoken.

“From that drunk in the alley. He was going to…” Even now, with all of her seeming self-confidence, she can’t say the words.

He stills, and blue eyes flick up to meet hers. That severe gaze lightens the slightest bit. “He didn’t.” Spoken matter-of-factly, the words are reassuring to her nonetheless.

“Because you were there,” she insists. My white knight.

He regards her for another moment before returning to the present in his hands. He never had liked being praised, much less thanked. Too bad for him, she would do it anyway whether he liked it or not.

Finally the wrapping paper is out of the way, revealing a hinged black box. He flips up the lid to reveal a pair of sapphire earring studs. The ones currently in his ears are serviceable - he would never allow himself to appear anything less than well put together and poised - but the ones she’s given him are mounted to quality white gold and will last a long time.

He stares down at them without moving or speaking. She bites her bottom lip nervously. “Do you not like them?”

One of his fingers traces over the earrings and he seems lost in thought. She’s never seen him like this before. Hesitantly, she reaches out, ready to whisk the earrings away. “I can return them if you don’t want them.”

He catches her hand, his fingers crushing hers. “No.” Seeing her wince, he instantly loosens his grip. Bending his elbow, he brings her hand to his lips and reverently kisses her fingers. She blinks rapidly, taken aback. Public displays of affection are extremely rare between them; he is man given to privacy, and she respects that, even though she’d like to do things like just walk beside him holding his hand. He makes up for it when they’re away from prying eyes, alone in their apartment.

Holding her gaze, he presses another kiss to her knuckles. She understands it’s an apology and a thank you combined. Without permission, the corner of her mouth tugs up in a tiny smile and he looks almost relieved. Forgiven.

As if she’d do anything else.

He relinquishes her hand to remove the studs in his ears. Dropping them next to his untouched dessert plate, he picks up the new earrings and slides them on with easy, economical movements. He raises a cocky eyebrow at her, and she can’t help the pleased grin spreading across her face.

They match his eyes exactly.

The corners of his mouth lift almost imperceptibly as he witnesses her joy. They sit in silence, looking and smiling, for a long moment before his mouth flattens back to its usual dour position. Jutting his chin at her plate, he murmurs, “Eat.”

She finishes her cake, enjoying the chocolate and the company, and soon enough the check is paid and he’s helping her to her feet, sliding her coat over her shoulders. Feeling brave, she slips an arm into the crook of his elbow; butterflies take flight in her stomach when he allows it.

Later their waiter discovers a pair of earring studs lying on the tablecloth, dull with age and discarded.

*_*_*

A noise wakes her. More asleep than awake, her brow furrows slightly as she shifts underneath the covers. The deep rumbling that had pulled her from her dreams reverberates again, accompanied by flashing white light.

Rubbing a hand across her eyes, she grimaces as she realizes she is smearing eyeliner across her cheeks. When the lightning streaks across the sky, she uses the illumination through their bedroom window to glance at her pillow. Just as she’d suspected, pale foundation and dark splotches of eyeshadow now decorate it.

She sits up gingerly, trying not to wake her sleeping lover up. Turning, she sees him lying half turned away from her, his face slack in slumber. Reaching out with light fingers, she sweeps a strand of golden hair out of his face. His bare, muscled chest rises and falls in a regular rhythm, and she watches it for a minute as thunder booms distantly and rain falls steadily in the world outside their apartment.

Moving slowly, she shuffles her legs toward the edge of the mattress. Aches make themselves known in various muscles, but they were born of pleasure, and she bears them cheerfully. He had liked her present after all and had thoroughly expressed his gratitude. Twice.

Not bothering with clothes or lights, she makes her way into the bathroom. Shutting the door so the lights won’t disturb him, she flicks the switch and flinches at the brightness. There’s a sizable purplish mark on her neck, to the right of her throat. Stroking it gently with two fingers, she shivers at the remembrance of the heat of his mouth and the scrape of his teeth. Giddily, she grins at herself in the mirror. Good thing she works at a makeup counter; it would be difficult to hide without the right concealers.

Her smile doesn’t fade, even as she brushes her teeth and properly removes her makeup. Drying her face with a towel, she buries herself in its depths to let out a girlish giggle. Eager to return to his side, she rubs moisturizer on haphazardly and shuts off the lights.

The rain is pattering steadily against the window, and she pauses to look out at the city. She had always loved storms. Something about the thunder and lightning made her feel alive, feel electric. Like she could channel all that raw energy, feel it flowing in her veins.

Sheets rustle behind her, and she glances back to see him turning over onto his stomach. Tiptoeing back to their bed, she lifts the comforter and slips in beside him. Cuddling into her pillow, she lets the ceaseless drumming of the rain lull her back to sleep.

*_*_*

The storm invades her dreams. 

She finds herself standing on the bridge of a ship. Her mouth curls into a sneer as she looks down on a group of people on the main deck. They seem a motley crew, mostly men, with one small boy, a girl wearing a ridiculously short skirt, and a man so feminine she finds herself briefly jealous of his alabaster skin and shining amethyst hair. 

The sea around them is churning, white-capped waves splashing the sides of the boat, but her feet are steady and she only feels apathetic. The group is angry, fists up and weapons held at the ready, pointed right at her, but she can’t seem to muster a care.

Behind her the rumble of thunder is nearly a tangible thing, vibrating against her skin, and lightning shoots across the darkened skies as the clouds release their watery burdens. Standing on a high point in the middle of a squall should feel dangerous, she should be wary and cautious, but she isn’t. She’s not afraid of the thunder, would welcome a spark of lightning flitting down to her.

There’s a burning on her thigh, and she glances down at the bared flesh to see a character blazing blue on her skin. She can’t read it upside down, but the pain is strangely exhilarating. Her arms raise straight up, her hands pointing to the heavens in supplication. The air around her wrists grows heavy and starts to swirl, creating a miniature tempest of her own. On her command. Above her, she can feel the lightning darting from cloud to cloud, coming closer. Coming at her call.

The mists enveloping her wrists start to burn blue, as blue as her tattoo, and the lightning races closer.

She looks down at the group of warriors and slowly, inexorably lowers her hands to point all of that tempest rage at them. She knows what will happen. The stink of burnt flesh will fill the air, the boat will rip apart, and she’ll have fulfilled her orders.

He will be proud of her. He has to be.

She doesn’t know these warriors, doesn’t care to. They are not her enemies, not really. But he says they must be eliminated. And so, they shall. She will do it. For him.

Between her palms, the clouds grow hot and start to spark. Goodbye, she thinks. Then she gathers that lightning and lets it go.

*_*_*

She’s putting away the last of the new shipment of liquid lipsticks when Nagasawa-san wanders over. There isn’t a lot of space in the storage room, but they make do.

“Any good ones?” Nagasawa comes close to peer over her shoulder. 

She holds up one to her coworker’s face, trying to judge how the color would look against Nagasawa’s skin. “Try this one.”

Nagasawa eagerly snatches it up, unscrewing the cap to examine the deep rose, glossy and thick. “Ooh, how pretty.” She swipes a bit on her fingertip and dabs it on her lips, rolling them with a smack to distribute the product. “What do you think?”

She cranes her neck and takes in the whole picture. “Pretty,” she agrees, with a slight smile.

“I’m getting it,” Nagasawa decides, sticking the tube in the pocket of her apron. “Thank goodness for steep discounts.”

She agrees fervently. Her lover doesn’t say anything about her makeup obsession, but he’s given the chaos spread atop her vanity a glare enough times for her to get the message. These days she only purchases restocks of her good old standbys and new items if they make her skin glow like a Kpop star. However, every single fuschia eyeshadow has to come home with her, no matter what. The bright pink sets off the brown of her eyes and complements her magenta hair and it has been her signature color ever since she was thirteen years old.

Nagasawa nudges her. “Want to come to the karaoke bar with us tonight? Miyata-san said she’ll buy the first round.”

It’s been too long since she’s hung out with her coworkers. Usually she spends her nights cooking dinner for the two of them, watching her Kdramas or reading, and going to bed. Sometimes there is only sleeping when that happens, other times not. It’s a comfortable routine, but she doesn’t mind breaking it today.

“Sure.” She digs out her phone from her pocket, unlocking the screen with her thumb. Tapping on her text messages, she quickly writes: Going out with the girls. There are leftovers in the fridge if you don’t want to cook anything. After a moment’s hesitation, she ends the message with a single heart emoji.

She’s never spoken the words aloud, but she thinks he knows. How could he not? They’re in their late 20’s, not university students messing around. They live together, share a home. She glances down at her left hand, ring finger conspicuously bare.

Someday, she thinks. Someday.

She watches the open message app until her text switches from “Delivered” to “Read.” She waits a moment longer to see if he will respond. He doesn’t. Sighing, she puts her phone back in her pocket and follows Nagasawa to the locker room.

They end up piling into two cabs, chattering excitedly about the day’s customers and what kind of drinks they’ll order. She pastes a grin on her face and lets the noise wash over her.

They’re trying out a new place again; God knows there are thousands of karaoke bars in the city, but they’re on a continuing quest for one that serves the best takoyaki. She doesn’t even really like octopus, but the other girls do, so she humors them. As long as there is alcohol and music, she’s in.

The conversation turns to movies and the debate between which is the best Marvel hero lasts the rest of the cab ride, through getting their karaoke room, and into the first song. Her preference is for Captain America, but Nagasawa makes a good case for Thor. 

The first round of drinks comes and she lifts up her glass with the others, cheering for a blissful night of cutting loose.

Two hours later, her vision’s blurry at the edges and she’s swaying in her seat. Not on beat with the Kpop blaring out of the speakers behind her, but slower, like a reed swaying in the breeze.

“Here, drink this.” A glass full of clear liquid is shoved into her line of sight. She blinks blearily at it and then up at her coworker. Nagasawa had drawn the short straw of being the sober caretaker, but it was a job she took seriously. She clutches the offered cup and drinks deeply. The cool water soothes her dry throat. 

Nagasawa-san waves her thanks away. “Time to go home.”

“Okay,” she answers, readily agreeing. Home meant him, and she wanted to see him. 

She always wants to see him.

Nagasawa herds the group out to the lobby, getting the proprietor to call cabs for them. Sakamoto-san leans against her, lifting her phone to show her photos of her fat grey cat. “He’s sooo fat, he’s like a pillow,” Sakamoto slurs.

She nods in agreement. He did look awfully fluffy. She wouldn’t mind resting her head against his flank.

“He’d claw you if you tried,” Sakamoto says, responding to the thoughts she was apparently saying aloud.

They grip each other, trying to stay upright, giggling at the thought of the angry cat swiping at them for trying to stuff him into a pillowcase. Another group of singers exits a room nearby and heads toward them. She glances over, idly noting that they seemed to be schoolkids, maybe university age, maybe younger.

Two of them have the same face. She frowns, wondering if the sake has made her loopier than usual, before she eventually realizes they are twins. Same face, same blonde hair cut short on the sides and long on top, but different clothes. Her brow furrows. She’s seen those faces before. Hasn’t she?

“Hey.” She’s calling out to them before she can think better of it. The group continues on, ignorant. She tries again, louder. “Hey, you.” Some of them look back at her, including the twins. She points at them. “Don’t I know you?” Her finger wavers as she sways.

“Drunk off her ass,” one of the teens sneers, and they all laugh. All except the twins, who are staring at her. She stares back. She knows them. She just...can’t remember.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” another teen crows, and the group moves toward the door. One of the twins lifts his hand in a half-hearted wave, confusion creasing his face. There might be a hint of recognition in his eyes. Or maybe it’s just the neon reflection of the OPEN sign.

Maybe she’s seeing things. Maybe she saw them in a dream.

His brother puts a protective arm around his shoulders and pulls him away, his glare fierce. She waves goodbye as they pass through the door and disappear into the night.

“Who are you waving at?” Sakamoto asks.

“No one,” she answers.

Then she blinks and they’re back in a cab, zooming away towards home. One by one the girls get dropped off, until she and Nagasawa are the only ones left.

“I’ll tell the driver your address, get him to drop you off first,” Nagasawa says, starting to unbuckle her seatbelt so she can scoot forward to talk to the driver.

She puts a hand out to Nagasawa’s wrist. “No, don’t do that. You live close by. My apartment’s in the opposite direction.”

Nagasawa looks over at her, a concerned frown on her face. Leaning close, she whispers, “I don’t want to leave you alone when you’re like this.”

She waves a careless hand. “I’m sobering up.”

Her friend shakes her head. “Not soon enough.”

She digs into her purse, gets out her phone. “Look, I’ll call my boyfriend, keep him on the line the whole time.”

Nagasawa thinks for a moment before tapping the screen. “Call him now. Let me talk to him.”

Clumsily, she unlocks her screen. Nagasawa takes it from her to stab a finger at the phone app. “Is this him?” It’s a pointless question. His is the only contact with hearts around the name. She presses his name and the line starts ringing.

She snatches the phone back. “Let me talk to him first.”

It rings a couple times before he answers. “Yes?”

He never answers “moshi moshi” like a normal person. But then again, he can see it’s her calling, so he doesn’t need to. Gulping, she tries to keep her voice steady, to sound normal and not tipsy. “I’m on my way home.”

His silence is telling. She can imagine his arched brows. Why is she calling him just to tell him that?

Nagasawa grabs the phone back. “Hello, this is Nagasawa-san. Yes, I’m a friend. I’m getting dropped off first and I didn’t want - yes, we’re fairly close. Yes.” She pulls the phone away from her ear. Hitting the mute button, Nagasawa leans over to her. “He wants to talk to the driver.”

Her brows veer down. “Why?”

Nagasawa smirks in amusement. “Probably to threaten his life if he doesn’t get you home safely.”

She can’t help the snort. That does not sound like him at all. She watches Nagasawa hand the phone up to the driver.

Nagasawa “hmm’s” in thought as the man listens to whatever her lover is saying to him. “He seems protective of you.”

“He knows I can take care of myself.”

This gets her an eye roll from her coworker. “Isn’t the point of a boyfriend to take care of you?”

She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I’m the one who cooks, buys groceries, cleans the house. Aren’t I taking care of him?”

Nagasawa snorts. “But if someone looked at you the wrong way, he’d kick their ass. Right?”

Her head tilts to one side as she considers this scenario. “I...guess so?”

Her friend nods like she’s some wise sage. “See - there you go. Protective.” The driver hands the phone back, and Nagasawa lifts it to her ear. “Okay, I’m here. Yes. Yes, okay. Good night.”

She takes the proffered cell and says, “Hello?”

His voice, deep and familiar, washes over her. “I told the driver to bring you straight to the apartment. No shortcuts.”

“Okay.” She isn’t sure what kind of answer he’s expecting.

“Put me on speakerphone.”

“Huh? Speakerphone? Why?”

He lets out a noise of exasperation. “For security.”

“Okay.” Pulling the phone away, she squints at the screen until she finds the speaker icon. “I did it.”

“Good.”

They are nearing Nagasawa’s complex now. She leans over to hug her. “Thanks for a fun night.”

Nagasawa hugs back tight. “Always. See you on Monday.”

She waves at her coworker through the window, Nagasawa waves back, and then the cab is pulling away from the curb.

“How long?” His voice cuts through the silence, making her flinch in surprise.

It takes her longer than usual to realize the question isn’t directed at her. The driver, on the other hand, seems to be expecting it, because he answers almost immediately. “Ten minutes, sir.”

“I’ll be waiting.” Her lover makes the simple sentence, spoken flatly, sound like a threat. She feels the surge as the driver steps harder on the acceleration and hides her smile.

She hums to herself, and to him. Letting him know she’s still here but sparing him the burden of conversation, especially with an audience. She watches the lights go by and traces their shapes on the window with her finger.

She cradles the phone closer to her, takes it off speaker for the moment. “Did you eat?”

A pause as he figures out what she’s done. “Yes.”

She absently admires the clothing in a window display as the cab rolls to a stop at a red light. The black dress in the middle is cute. “The green beans were too salty.”

“They were fine.”

“You always say that.” The light turns green, and the cab moves forward.

“They’re always fine.”

She huffs. “I’ll get a cookbook.”

The barest hint of amusement colors his words. “You won’t read it.”

He’s right. Even if she buys one, it’ll sit unopened on her bookshelf. She prefers watching videos, anyway; that was she can copy the technique. Feeling petty, she sticks her tongue out at her phone, pulling down an eyelid for good measure.

“How childish.” She gasps, almost dropping the phone in shock. Peering at it, she makes sure she hasn’t hit the button for video chat by mistake.

“We’re here, miss.” She looks up at the driver’s words, glances around before she realizes they’ve arrived. The driver straightens in his seat, looking out to the left.

Following her gaze, she sees him. Waiting just outside the entrance. Her heart leaps in delight at the sight of him before she realizes he saw her through the car window and her cheeks redden.

He comes toward them, strides confident as always, and opens her door. She accepts his hand, and stumbles slightly as she stands, bracing herself against his chest. He probably thinks it’s the sake she drank, but she knows it’s just him, just his presence making her light-headed as usual.

She enjoys the arms wrapped around her. He pays the driver quickly, and the cab moves off down the street. She leans closer, nuzzles into his chest. Shivers now that the alcohol isn’t enough to keep her warm. He wraps his coat around her, strokes her hair, slides a hand around the small of her back to press her close.

She can hardly breathe. It’s late enough that no one is around, but still, he’s here, he’s holding her, out here in the open. Holding her like he cares. 

Holding her like he loves her.

They make it back to their apartment, still arm in arm. He takes her jacket from her and hangs it up, and she pads into the kitchen to make them both tea. As late as it is, he probably won’t go to sleep for another hour. She often chides him about being a workaholic, but she admires his drive and dedication. Ambition is not one of her strong suits; it’s why she’s a makeup counter girl instead of an executive like him. Hell, it’s why she’s not even an office girl. Just the thought of a desk and a computer and endless typing day in and day out is enough to break her out in hives. She’d rather play with eyeshadows and give people mini-makeovers, help them find the perfect lip color.

It’s a wonder their worlds ever intersected, she muses, as she tilts the teapot until the steaming liquid is waterfalling into the pair of cups in front of her. He never talks about their relationship, or if there’s a future for them. She’s hopeful - he moved her into his personal space, didn’t he? - but deep, deep down she’s dreading the day he wakes up and realizes he could do so much better than her. Who is she, in comparison to him?

No one.

Shaking off her dark thoughts, she picks up a teacup and brings it over to him. Once he’s accepted it, she rubs at his shoulders, massages his neck. He doesn’t do anything as gauche as hunch over his laptop, but all that screen time takes its toll.

He hums a little, in acknowledgement, in appreciation, perhaps. Takes a sip before putting the cup down and starting to type once more. The English words on the screen might as well be hieroglyphics to her.

“Do we know any twins?” The question is out of her mouth before she knows what she’s saying. She’d meant to ask him if he wanted her to rub harder or tell him about Sakamoto’s fat cat. Where had that come from?

His typing pauses ever so slightly before continuing. Maybe he had to think a moment, to find a synonym or something. “Twins?” His tone is bland, dispassionate as it always is. She’s always found the contrast between his lack of interest in...well, anything and his silken tenor incongruous. He could make a podcast of himself just reading home appliance instruction manuals and everyone who listened to it would still swoon.

She digs her thumbs into the meaty muscle, forcing out the kinks in circular motions. “I saw some twins at the karaoke place. Dark blonde hair, blue eyes. Teenagers.” He reaches up to pat one of her hands, his signal that he’s had enough. She leans down to press a kiss to his temple before walking toward the bedroom, working at the clasp of her watch. She wants to get out of this dress, take her bra off now that she’s home. Flannel pajamas may not be the sexiest things ever, but they’re warm and comfortable and he hasn’t kicked her out of bed for wearing them yet.

She calls over her shoulder, “They looked familiar. Maybe one of your clients?”

Sometimes he brings her along for business dinners if his colleagues or clients are also bringing their wives or families. She relishes the excuse to dress up, drink expensive wine on someone else’s dime, and hold onto his arm. 

She reaches her vanity and sets her watch down, slips her earrings out and hangs them onto her jewelry tree. She has both hands in her hair, untangling it from its ballerina-style bun, when she feels his warmth at her back. His hands reach for the zipper of her dress, pulling the tab down, down, down. His mouth follows its path, burning a trail of kisses down her spine. She arches back into his arms. He turns her around and leans down to press his lips to hers, and her dress drops to the floor, barely an afterthought.

It only occurs to her days later while she is at work that he never answered her question. But then a customer asks her about the eyeliner she is wearing, and the thought slips from her mind, disappears like mist.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soi/Nakago reincarnation AU, part 2

Two weeks later finds her idly staring down at her fingernails as she leans against her counter. The crimson lacquer is starting to chip, so she makes a mental note to make an appointment at her favorite salon.

She’s scrolling through #nailart photos on Instagram when a throat is cleared near her. Startled, she quickly shoves her cell into her apron pocket and looks up with her practiced customer service smile on her face.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.” The rather insincere apology comes from a very pretty man, his dark hair pulled up into a flawless ponytail on top of his head. One glance at his face shows subtle makeup applied by a master hand. The effects are cunningly simple; to the untrained eye, he was simply a very good-looking man, but she could see how he’d played up his (admittedly attractive) features, drawing the eye to his eyes and mouth with mascara-thickened lashes and a glossy pink lipstick slightly darker than what she assumed to be his natural lip color.

She can appreciate cosmetic competence, even mastery, like this, so she swallows down her initial irritation and asks how she can help.

Those painted pink lips purse in a moue of affected thought. “I’m running out of highlighter and thought I’d try something new for a change.” His gray eyes flick over her. “You seem like you know what you’re doing. Have any suggestions for me?”

Her irritation is rapidly growing into actual dislike, but that could be due to the outright condescension in his words. However, she only smiles brighter.

That’s rule number 1 of customer service: never let the customer see how you’re really feeling.

“Absolutely. We got in some great ones yesterday. Let me show you.”

The rest of the encounter goes as it usually does with customers - she models the product on her hand and arm, shows him the different shades they have, and lets him brush a little above one cheekbone to compare it to his other, bare one. All the while, she kind of feels like she’d like to deck him one - everything about him is rubbing her the wrong way. He’s not even saying that much, only listening to her spiels about this shade or that brand. The sudden dislike seems disproportionate to one meeting with a strange customer at her counter, but she can’t seem to shake it.

After he leaves - without buying anything, what a jackass - she is seething. Nagasawa notices and comes over with cups of tea for both of them. “Everything all right?”

She waves it off, tries to rearrange her face into something more neutral. “Just an annoying customer. We gets hundreds of those.”

Her coworker nods. “Yes, we do, but usually you don’t look so homicidal afterward.”

She tries to laugh it off. “Maybe my monthly guest is looking to make an appearance; that would explain it.”

Nagasawa-san agrees that hormones could be a likely cause and the conversation drifts to other, lighter topics. Still, she can’t shake the feeling that her dislike was rooted in something deeper, something more.

But she’d never seen that man before. Had she?

*_*_*

That night she had the dream again. Everything happened the same - the war, the screams, the fighting, the handsome green-haired man.

She watched him get him and then the red-haired man pulled out his sword. She knew what was coming but she was helpless to move, trapped in her dream body. He let it fly, she lunged, and then there was only pain.

Her hand reached up to caress the cheek of the man in front of her, and just before it all faded to black, she saw his face clearly for the first time.

It was her lover.

Shooting upright with a cry, she gasped and couldn’t seem to draw enough breath. Her thrashing was evidently enough to wake him, for she felt a hand rubbing soothing circles on her back.

“Breathe, slowly. Take your time. You’re trying too hard and panicking and it’s making it worse.”

She followed his coaching until her breaths came easier. He laid back down and she curled into his side. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

“Bad dream?” Normally he wouldn’t ask such an inane question, but her reaction must have concerned him. She couldn’t tell from his voice; it was as deep and expressionless as it usually was.

She buried her face into his chest and nodded. He pulled her closer and started stroking her hair.

He seemed to hesitate, an unheard-of display of uncertainty in a man who probably had been sure of himself since he was born. “Want to talk about it?”

She shook her head.

It was just a dream. It didn’t mean anything. And she saw him every day; it was no great leap for her brain to make to fill in a dream person’s face with one she looked at so often.

_It didn’t mean anything._

She shut her eyes tight and told herself that over and over and over again, concentrating on the feel of his fingers running through her hair until she fell back asleep.

*_*_*

The dream is exactly the same for the next three nights, and she wakes up shaking every time. Then she can’t stand it anymore, goes running for the nearest pharmacy on her lunch break and stocks up on the best sleeping pills she can find.

The first night, she pops one whole tablet and promptly conks out for 16 hours straight. She wakes up, disoriented, head swimming, and checks her phone to see that she’s already missed half her shift. Frantically, she stabs at her phone to text Nagasawa-san.

_told the boss you were sick_ , is the response she gets. _feel better soon!_

The sentiment is ironic, but she thanks her friend anyway. Listlessly, she heads to the market to buy a couple things so she can throw together dinner. Her head feels like it’s full of cotton balls, and it’s hard to focus.

When he gets home to her lazily put together meal, he raises an eyebrow. She thinks he’s going to berate her for the mediocre meal, but instead he asks, “Are you okay? When I left for work, you wouldn’t wake up.”

She flushes. Usually she likes to see him off at the door, with a bento in hand to give him, or, if she’s feeling particularly indolent, she will at least pester him to lean down over her where she lounges in bed for a good-bye kiss before he’s out the door. Apparently, the pill had knocked her out so thoroughly she hadn’t even twitched a muscle.

She wonders if it freaked him out. It kind of freaked her out, to be honest.

“I tried a sleeping pill. For my - insomnia.” She almost says nightmares before realizing he’ll think she’s being childish. “Clearly, the dosage was too high.”

“Hhnnn.” He lets out a noncommittal sound, absorbed in using his chopsticks to slice his tilapia into bite-sized pieces. “No side effects?”

Other than her fogged-up mind and a bone-deep weariness that she suspects is psychological more than anything physical, she feels…okay. She tells him so, adding that she will only take half a pill from now on.

His forehead crinkles the slightest bit. “Do not become addicted.”

“I won’t!” she gasps, aghast. “I’m very careful.”

She can tell he’s not convinced, but hell, it’s her body. They finish their meal in silence and he retreats to his study while she plops onto the couch to queue up the latest episode of the drama she’s watching. However, she barely makes it through the intro song before she’s nodding off.

Half-awake, she’s aware of strong arms lifting her. Then she’s tucked into bed and knows no more.

The next morning she wakes up when his alarm goes off. Blearily, she scrubs at her eyes but can’t muster enough energy to move more than that. She dozes while he showers and gets dressed. Later the mattress moves as he sits next to her. She’s curled up on her side and she slowly moves her arm so she can prop her head up on her hand. She blinks up at him - his expression is staid, like it always is. But she knows he’s thinking through solutions to her problem - he’s almost scarily intelligent, and it’s just as intimidating as his glare, his sheer physicality, and his presence.

She often tells herself how lucky she is that he lets her in past his walls, lets her close, lets her see him. The real him, deep down inside.

“If you’re having trouble sleeping,” he says, “you should exhaust your body so it has no choice.”

Her brow furrows. She doesn’t understand. “So I should do jumping jacks before bed?”

He huffs, a breath of what might be laughter. She doesn’t see what’s so funny. Then he raises an eyebrow and trails a single finger down the side of her neck and it hits her.

Her face turns red so fast she’s happy she’s already prone, because she would have fallen over. A shark smile spreads over his face, and she shifts onto her back, so she can better cover her face with both hands. How embarrassing. They’ve been lovers for a long time, and he can still reduce her to a blushing, stuttering schoolgirl.

Her eyes are closed, but she can feel the warmth of his body as he leans over her, putting his hands on either side of her head and leaning down to cage her. He speaks directly into her ear. “There’ll probably be some trial and error involved. We should make sure the method is sound.” His voice lowers even more. “ _Repeatedly_.”

And now she has no choice but to kiss him, to grab his hair and pull his lips to hers. With the ease of long practice and intimate knowledge of her body, he slants his mouth over hers and devours her. Five minutes or five hours later, she’s panting and trying to unbutton his shirt. He catches her hands and kisses her wrists. She pouts and he darts forward to bite her bottom lip. “Later.”

“Yeobo,” she whines.

He must be in a good mood, because he allows it. Usually he has no patience for her petulance. Today he only smirks and pulls away, straightening his tie.

“Damn you,” she calls, throwing a pillow at his back. It falls ridiculously short of the mark. She lays back and listens to the front door open and close. She closes her eyes, wills herself back to sleep. But the inferno he set low in her belly won’t let her rest. Growling, she tosses the covers aside and swings her feet over the edge of the bed. She might as well get up.

That night he’s barely through the doorway before she pounces, and he slams the door shut before hauling her up against it and devastating her. They don’t even make it to their bedroom until round three. Sated and sore, she passes out, and there is only comforting blackness, no blue lightning or red death.

A week passes in a similar manner, and she finally feels like she can look forward to sleeping for once. She doesn’t have to fear closing her eyes and letting herself fall into slumber.

She should have known better.

She’s walking the familiar pathway from the subway to the department store. The cord of her earbuds sways with her movement as she gracefully maneuvers around other workers also hurrying to their jobs, eager to start another day. Her fingers are tapping to the beat of the BTS song playing when she reaches a crosswalk. She halts and waits for the light to change. She hopes the boy band will come to Japan on their next world tour. She would have to get tickets for sure.

As she muses, a man comes to a stop next to her. Her attention is caught by the huge dog leashed at his side. Big and black-brown, it looks more like a wolf than a dog. Goosebumps break out over her skin as she wonders how well-trained the animal is - she’s close enough that it wouldn’t take much effort of the dog to clamp its jaws around her leg and take a bite. As if scenting her fear, the dog’s ears perk and its head turns, golden eyes meeting hers. Its lip curls and she can see white teeth as it snarls. She sucks in a breath and stumbles back, bumping into someone behind her. The woman squawks indignantly, but she can’t do anything but back away, every cell in her body screaming at her to retreat.

The light changes and the crowd behind her pushes. She lets herself be born away by its tide, keeping a wary eye on the dog at all times. Its owner pulls insistently on its leash and eventually the pair disappears off a side street. But her heart doesn’t stop racing until she’s safe in the break room at work.

What the hell? She’s never been afraid of dogs before, no matter how big they were. Why should that one terrify her so?

That day at work, she can’t focus. Can’t stop thinking about the damn dog, and the damn dream that plagues her. And those twins from the karaoke bar. Everything swirls around in her head until she gives herself a migraine and has to go home early.

Is she going insane? Maybe she should try to talk to a doctor or something.

Once she gets home, she halfheartedly eats a few bites of ramen, before putting the rest away and sticking a note about it on the refrigerator where her lover will see it. Then she carefully slices a sleeping pill in half, swallows it dry, changes into her pajamas. She swipes a makeup remover wipe across her face long enough to get most of it off before tucking herself underneath the covers and shutting out the rest of the world. The pill works as effectively as ever, and she slips into slumber between one breath and the next.

The next morning her lover sets a mug of coffee down on the bedside table next to her. The smell, along with his hand shaking her shoulder, wakes her and she sits up slowly. He helps her to lean against the headboard before grabbing the mug and holding it out to her. Instead of taking it, she runs her fingers across his cheek, her thumb stroking the soft skin under his eye. He says nothing, but raises both eyebrows slightly in a gesture of inquiry.

“I had a migraine - that’s all. Nothing’s wrong.” She accepts the mug and takes a sip, wrinkling her nose. She tries to like it for him, and the smell really is nice and comforting, but all told she prefers tea. He did sweeten it with cream and sugar to her liking, though, so that’s at least something. She’ll drink it because he prepared it for her and because it will help chase the cobwebs lingering in her mind from the post-migraine, post-pill fog.

“Thank you.” At her mumble, he leans forward to accept a goodbye kiss. She pecks his lips twice in a row. His eyes scan over her as he straightens up, but her appearance must satisfy him, for he stands without a word.

“How about curry tonight? We haven’t been out in a while.” She takes another sip while he straightens his cuffs and considers her offer.

“Meet there at 7?”

She beams. Their favorite spot is a tiny family-owned shop that most of the rest of the city hasn’t discovered yet. It’s never crowded, and she feels like she can relax and enjoy the home cooking, that she doesn’t have to be perfectly made up and on display like she usually does when they go to higher-end restaurants or out with his colleagues. She makes a note to stuff a more casual dress into her bag to change into after work.

“Okay, it’s a date.” His face gets that pinched expression that means he wants to roll his eyes but is too refined to do so. She snorts and waves him away. “Have a nice day at work, dear,” she calls to his retreating back, in English, deliberately, like a 1950’s housewife. He actually flips her off and she can’t help but laugh at that, her giggles ringing out through the apartment.

Mood sufficiently lightened, she watches baby panda videos on Instagram while she sips her coffee and then gets ready for work.

The day passes quickly, ramped up by her anticipation and her good mood. Even customers complaining and yelling in her face about how she’s incompetent - just because she grabbed the wrong shade of foundation, even though that was the color the customer told her, instead of the one that would more accurately match her skin tone, because the customer is always right and makeup counter girls are uneducated peons whose sole purpose is to serve and keep the cogs of economy turning (the customer did not actually say these things but it was heavily implied in the disapproving furrow of her brows) - it’s all water off her back.

Soon enough she’s clocking out and headed for the train, eager to see her lover, to be in his company and fill her belly with delicious curry.

By the time she gets there - because the train was delayed for some reason or another - he’s already seated at their usual table in the back corner. They are the only ones in the whole dining area. She waves merrily to the owner’s wife standing behind the cash register, who exclaims that her prettiest customer has come back. She feels her cheeks warming; the woman says the same thing every time they eat here, and it never fails to get to her.

“Ah, look, she’s blushing - even prettier now!” the woman calls, waving a hand at her lover. “You’re a very lucky man, ne?”

Gravely, he holds her gaze as she walks over to him, but he answers the owner’s wife. “I am.”

That definitely doesn’t help her cheeks cool off, but she’s so pleased she doesn’t care. She brushes a kiss over his cheekbone and plunks herself down into her chair. She knows he will have ordered already for the both of them, so she chatters about her day, telling him about her customers and even showing him one of the panda videos. He watches about two seconds before pushing the phone away, but she counts it as a victory all the same. She pulls the screen back to face her and sighs as she watches the ball of fluff wriggle feebly as his handlers carefully hold a tape measure over him to check on his progress.

The bell on the door rings out as the portal swings open to admit another customer. Her back is to the door, and she’s absorbed in her panda-watching, but as the newcomer cries out in greeting to the owners, something about the man’s voice catches her attention. Her lover is busy typing on his tablet, and he doesn’t look up as she twists in her seat to see.

The customer is chatting with the owners as he digs around in his wallet for correct change, and at first glance he’s a stranger to her. His hair is so outlandish that she certainly would have remembered seeing it before - powder blue and shaved closely to his scalp, except for outrageously tall bangs that stick almost straight up.

Except…she has seen it before. A memory flashes across her mind, a glimpse of that same light blue hair, except the man had been dressed like a monk, had been below her on the deck of a boat.

Had been kneeling next to the fallen prince, trying to comfort him in his pain.

An odd creaking sound brings her back to the present, and numbly she looks down at her hand to see that she’s clutched her phone hard enough to warp the thick plastic case around it. What the hell?

She glances back to the blue-haired man, but he is gathering his food, preparing to leave.

“What is it?”

Her lover has put his tablet down, is looking at her. Her mouth opens and shuts but she can’t speak. Instead, she jabs a thumb back at the customer. Her lover’s eyes flicker over her shoulder to the man and back, and there’s the slightest hint of _something_ in his eyes.

She thinks it’s recognition. Thinks he knows that man.

Does he know the twins? That dog? The rude, gorgeous, makeup-wearing man?

But why wouldn’t he say so? Something else occurs to her. Does he have the dream, too?

Suddenly her heart is racing, and she can’t breathe.

She shoots to her feet, the chair clattering to the ground behind her. Gasping, she stumbles around it. She needs air. She can’t breathe.

The rumble of thunder echoes the shuddering gasps escaping her throat as she tries to suck in air. She trips and pitches forward. Strong arms wrap around her waist and chest and haul her upright. He is murmuring something into her hair, the owner’s wife is shouting in concern, but all she can hear is the thunder. She closes her eyes but she sees the lightning flashing all the same.

And her thigh is burning, scorching - it feels like her flesh is melting. Someone is screaming. Distantly, she realizes it’s her.

Then everything goes black.

*_*_*

When she opens her eyes, the first thing she sees is him. He isn’t looking at her, his head turned away as he speaks to someone.

“—need for an ambulance. Just a minor episode. She started taking sleeping pills the other day, this is probably a side effect—“

It’s a good lie, she thinks. Probably because it’s true, or at least, could be true. Those pills did seem to affect her deeply.

But this was not a side effect, or an episode, or a simple reaction that could get brushed aside in the name of exhaustion or hysterics.

She’s laying on the floor of the curry shop. Her head is resting on something soft - his jacket, maybe. He is kneeling next to her, speaking to the owner’s wife. He’s worried, but only someone who knows him well would be able to tell. The emotion, like any emotion, is hidden deep within his eyes. But she knows how to look.

He looks strangely - domestic. Like he cares. Like she’s important to him.

But she’s thought that once before, made that same mistake.

She lets out a little groan, half-feigned, and reaches a hand to her head. The owner clucks at her and hisses to him to help her up. To his credit, he already had one hand around her shoulder. She sits up slowly, can't help recalling just that morning when he’d been doing the same thing for her, helping to sit in bed, bringing her coffee.

Kissing her.

Viewing the scene from an outsider’s perspective, it’s very similar. He’s the picture of a doting boyfriend, caring for his lover.

But she is not that person anymore.

Her mouth moves, and she hears herself reassuring the older woman that she’s fine, she feels okay, she’ll be right as rain after she has a drink of water and eats some curry. The last part is said with a wink, and the woman smiles back, relieved.

She lets him help her back into her seat and she smiles at him, brightly. “Not how I imagined dinner going,” she jokes.

He’s staring at her, even more intense than usual. But she’s been playing the game far longer than he knows. “I’m fine, yeobo. Really. Probably didn’t drink enough water today.”

She knows he remains unconvinced, but she also knows he will not breach this topic here, in public.

He asks the woman for their meal to go, instead, claiming a desire to get her tucked into bed as soon as possible, and the owner agrees that would be for the best. She bustles away to get their food wrapped up, and for the moment they are left alone.

He continues to stare, but she sips from his water cup and works on liberating her cell from its deformed plastic prison. By the time their food is brought out, she has separated the case’s pieces and gotten her phone out, holding it up to her face to see if it was damaged. Luckily, it seems to be intact; replacing it would have been annoying.

Clasping the woman’s hand, she thanks her profusely. “Your curry is my favorite,” she insists. The matron pats her hand and tells her she slipped in an _imagawayaki_. “Sweets will make you feel better,” the owner proclaims, and if it gets her sponge cake with red bean paste, she won’t argue with the woman.

Thanking her again, they make their way outside and head to the nearest subway stop without speaking. She holds the food in one hand and has the other hand tucked into his elbow.

She wonders how much longer he will allow her to do that.

To counter the deafening silence as they wait for the next train, she slips a wireless earbud into her ear and pulls up a lofi playlist. Feeling a little petty, she sticks the other bud into his ear. He doesn’t move to take it out, and they listen to piano and jazz accompanied by slow drumbeats all the way back to their apartment.

She almost called it “home.” But she supposes it’s not. Not anymore.

Once they reach their apartment complex, she decides she doesn’t want to ask him. Doesn’t want to shatter this illusion. Not yet.

She just wants to eat her curry and watch her Kdrama and be normal.

So she does.

He’s always been perceptive, so when she immediately heads to the kitchen and gets out bowls to dish out the food, he goes to his office and starts syncing his tablet to his laptop so his work will be saved. Once that’s done, he’s tapping away on the keyboard like usual. She sets his bowl of rice and curry at his elbow, with a cup of tea, and then lounges on the sofa, finding an episode and hitting play.

She watches three more.

He went to bed an hour ago. She wonders if he’s actually sleeping, or if he’s waiting for her. Waiting to see what she’ll do.

Her lips purse as she realizes he probably won’t care either way. She can’t overpower him physically, so there’s nothing for him to be tense about. He’s probably snoring.

She wraps herself in the blanket covering her legs and stretches out on the couch anyway. Just because she loves him doesn’t mean she wants to be around him at the moment.

Besides, just because she can’t hurt him doesn’t mean he won’t turn the tables on her.

He’s apparently decided on non-violence for the day, because she wakes up to him picking her up off of the couch. It’s early enough that the sky is more gray than not, and she feels lethargic enough to not protest him moving her to their bed. She pulls the covers over herself and figures that he will go about getting ready. Instead after a long moment he climbs under the comforter with her. She looks over at him, but his eyes are closed.

She calls herself all kinds of a fool, but still reaches out to bring his arms around her. He shifts closer and pulls her so her back is flush to his front. Their legs tangle together, and for a moment she can pretend nothing has changed.

Maybe he is pretending the same thing, because he buries his face in her hair and sighs, his body relaxing by degrees.

And the crazy thing is. The crazy thing is that she feels like maybe, just maybe, they could. Just ignore everything and stay here, like this, in their bed, in their apartment, in their ridiculously mundane lives.

Maybe he would - maybe she could actually get what she wants. She imagines him sliding a ring, white gold, sparkling with diamonds, onto her left hand. Pictures a white dress, with tulle and lace. Hears the soft coo of a baby, tiny hands and feet wiggling in the air.

Maybe they could just - be. Together.

In her mind she’s reaching out for one of those tiny, precious hands. She’s almost touched it when the loud chimes of a ringtone fill the air.

No one they know would be calling at this hour, not unless it was an emergency. Or…she stops. Maybe it’s no one they know now.

He rolls away from her to grab his phone. Brings it up to his ear. “Yes?”

It’s quiet enough that she can clearly hear a feminine voice through the phone’s speakers. Words like _threat_ and _danger_ and _demon_.

The image of a baby in her mind dissolves like it was never there.

Somehow, she blinks, and they are at a quiet coffee shop, surrounded by people. Familiar strangers.

Yui-sama sits next to the Suzaku miko, both of them flanked by their - boyfriends? husbands? - and both as serious as she’s ever seen them. Suzaku warriors are scattered about the tables around them, one of them the blue-haired monk from the curry shop. The Suzaku miko is talking about a powerful demon named Tenkou, about how he wants to conquer the world, but she isn’t listening. It doesn’t matter - the details don’t matter. The fact that they all used to be enemies doesn’t matter.

Someone has to stop this threat to the world, and it might as well be them.

She doesn’t need to know all the nitty-gritty - just point her in the direction of the enemy, and let her do her job.

He knew how to do that. Knew she was just a weapon, a tool to be utilized, to mow down his enemies and accomplish his goals.

It’s not surprising to her that she’s doing the same thing, once again. For him. Oh, to be sure, it’s for her, as well; she’s accustomed to living in this world now, and she would not be happy if it was destroyed.

He’s not surprised or shocked or fazed at anything - nothing the priestess is saying, nor the former enemy warriors surrounding them.

How long has he known? How long has he been awake?

A cold ball forms in the pit of her stomach. If she hadn’t awoken on her own - would he have ever told her? 

The ice climbs higher. Did he know when he first saw her? Is that why he saved her?

Is that why he pursued her, asked her on a date? Moved her into his house?

_There is only one woman who can give me what I want. And you are not her._

The words haunt her, run through her mind over and over. Before, he allowed her to be near him for convenience sake. Because she was strong and a warrior and she boosted his power.

The orgasms she could wring from him probably didn’t hurt, either.

But now.

Now she’s still that same blind, lovesick little fool. Following wherever he goes.

She tunes back in just in time to hear that the monk and a couple others will be doing reconnaissance, trying to find out more about Tenkou’s plans and what kind of timeline he’s operating on. Nothing seems imminent, for now.

“Just like old times.” She looks up to find everyone’s attention on her and realizes she has spoken aloud. Raising a wry eyebrow, she shrugs. “Hurry up and wait.”

The two mikos seem confused, but the other warriors nod in understanding. War was never constant fighting all the time.

“We have everyone’s phone numbers,” the miko of Suzaku declares, “so we’ll be in touch.”

“Don’t leave the country,” Tamahome - or Tama, now, she guesses - quips.

It’s a joke, but it reminds her. She turns to him. “We should go. You still have to pack for Hokkaido.”

A short, crisp nod, and they're standing and taking their leave. She freezes when Yui-sama wraps her arms around her for a brief hug. Apparently she missed the memo that their relationship was at that stage.

“Have you seen Suboshi?” The miko’s question is soft, and the blonde glances back over her shoulder to make sure her boyfriend is engaged in talking to Tama.

She had forgotten that Yui-sama and Suboshi were - close. “He and Amiboshi are here, in town. I don’t think they’re…awake,” she answers, delicately.

Yui-sama frowns. “As much as I hate to take them away from their peaceful, normal lives -“

“You think we’ll need all hands on deck.” Amiboshi didn’t have a ton in the way of offensive skills, but any fighter was better than none and Suboshi would be an asset either way.

The miko nods. “From what we can tell, Tenkou may be more powerful than the four gods themselves.”

Blasphemy, she thinks immediately on reflex, before remembering how not religious she was now. Before, it had been easy to worship a god who had given her the power to choose her path in life and the chance to be at the side of the man she loved.

She absently brushes a hand over her thigh, where her mark of Seiryuu rests. She glances up to see Yui-sama hasn’t missed the movement. The blonde smiles a little. “For what it's worth, it’s good to see you.”

She had never had a problem with Yui-sama herself, only what she represented. She forces her mouth to return the smile. “You as well, Yui-sama.”

Then they’re leaving. He holds the door open for her to pass through and they trek down the sidewalk toward the train station. This time she doesn't reach out, doesn’t try to thread her arm through his.

It feels like it might be too much, now.

She doesn’t try to break the silence, doesn’t offer her earbuds again. Instead they walk and stand and sit and stand and walk again. They don’t talk.

By the time she’s locking their apartment door behind her, she can't keep it in any longer. The name bursts from her lips.

“Nakago.”

He pauses, stills. Stops moving in the middle of the kitchen. For a moment she doesn’t think he will respond. Then he turns, slowly, deliberately, to face her, those fathomless, knowing, blue eyes fixed on hers.

“Soi.”

And there it is. No more hiding. No more pretending.

This is who she is, now. This is who she’s always been.

She doesn’t want to know the answer, but she must ask. “How - how long?” How long have you known? is what she means. How long have you been pretending? 

His face doesn’t move a muscle, but his eyes grow colder, harder. More like they used to be. “About two years.”

The words drop into the silence of the room like a bomb. Two years. Two _years_.

She’s been living here for eighteen months. They’ve been _together_ for two years.

Is that why they were together?

She wants to ask but knows it will shatter her heart. For him. Again.

He must read it in her face because something softens in his expression. “It was after we met. After our first date.”

She wants to breathe out in relief, but she can’t, because she’s not relieved. Not really.

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

He looks remote, looks _through_ her. “What good would that have done?”

He leaves her gaping as he turns on his heel, disappears into their bedroom to pack for his business trip. Like everything’s normal.

Like everything’s okay.

It hits her, then. He never would have told her. Never would have acknowledged her dreams - that were not dreams, they were memories. Of the life she once lived. The life she willingly gave up.

For him.

Why did he stay with her after he regained his memories? She’s nothing compared to him, never has been, in this life or the last. Perhaps her presence was comforting, as ignorant of her true self as she was. Her personality was the same - willing to serve him, care for him.

To warm his bed.

The lump in her throat grows and grows, and tears prick at the corners of her eyes. She can’t be here now. Swallowing hard, she calls out, making sure her voice doesn’t tremble. Doesn’t betray her. “I’m going to get some groceries.”

He doesn’t verbally acknowledge her, but she knows he heard, and that’s enough. She’s glad she never took her coat off, for all she has to do is whirl around and unlock the door and escape.

She walks and walks, hands clenched into fists, holding her composure by threads, until she reaches the park near their complex. She starts down the wooded path and disappears into the trees. Once she’s hidden, she collapses, falling to her knees.

She’s sobbing so hard she can’t see. Curling around herself, she buries her face in her arms and cries.

Just yesterday, she was a simple department store worker, happily selling makeup to the masses. She didn’t have parents or family, but she had friends, and coworkers, and him. Her lover. She had an apartment, and pretty clothes, and a good life.

She was going to get married, have a baby, be happy. With him.

She sobs harder.

She’s mourning the loss of Kaen. She’s crying for her innocence, for the veil that had been ripped away.

She doesn't know how long she’s been sitting there on the ground, when someone crouches next to her. A hand offers her a handkerchief. She wipes her eyes and looks up blearily.

The woman is gorgeous, her long violet hair flowing in a braid down her back, a gentle smile on her face.

The gods were kind to her, this time around, to reincarnate her in a woman’s body.

“Nuriko.”

The Suzaku warrior reaches out to wipe her tears. She says nothing, only offers her presence as comfort. Lets her know she's not alone.

She blows her nose, loudly, and sniffles as she mops up the rest of her face. Her breaths come easier. Nuriko places a hand under her elbow and levers her to her feet in one smooth motion. She recalls the woman’s gift had been inhuman strength.

Perhaps that was not simply physical, but mental and emotional, to be able to smile so.

“Thank you,” she mutters, embarrassed that someone has seen her fall apart. Nuriko squeezes her hands and asks for her phone. When she hands it over, the other woman quickly punches in her name and number.

“Text me anytime.”

It seems like a throwaway promise, but Nuriko ducks her head to make sure she’s looking at her. “I mean it. Anytime.”

Impulsively, she pulls the warrior into a hug. It’s a lovely feeling, being embraced by someone who cares. One that she’s experienced too little in both of her lives.

Nuriko waves goodbye and leaves her, after she makes sure she’s all right. And well, she’s not all right, but she can handle it. She always has.

She thinks as she trudges toward the grocery store. Ponders the situation as she shops. Ruminates over her life before while she picks out fresh vegetables.

She thinks and thinks and thinks, as she pays, as she walks back, as she is putting the food away inside the refrigerator. 

By that time, his suitcase is neatly stowed near the door, and he is in his office. She can hear the taps of the keys as he types. Even though it’s his day off, she bets he is going over his presentation for the thousandth time so it will be flawless for tomorrow.

Or maybe he’s trying to research demons with world-conquering appetites. Or even messaging someone on Facebook.

The latter is extremely unlikely, given that he only has a Facebook because employers would find it odd if he didn’t. He has an Instagram, but it’s a private account with no photos at all. His profile photo is a black and white shot of him wearing sunglasses, looking to the side. She took it. She suspects he only made an account because she’s so active on hers and he wanted to follow her. 

There’s a meme out there for people like him, but she can’t remember it. Or rather, she’s trying to distract herself from thinking about everything else.

It’s not working.

So she decides to watch her drama instead. Fictional love lives are bound to be more engrossing than the mess that is her life.

She binges the rest of the season until it’s time for dinner. She makes a quick pasta dish that he likes, gets herself a bowl and plops back down on the couch. “Dinner’s ready.”

He can get his own damn bowl for once.

Someone onscreen is being a Noble Idiot, sacrificing their relationship so his mother won’t sabotage his girlfriend’s budding medical career. He tells her it’s over, that he doesn’t care about her anymore.

Her eyes are glued to the screen, and she mechanically spoons pasta into her mouth as tears stream down her face.

Something soft touches her cheek and she recoils, looks up to find him bending down with a tissue. Her cheeks filled like a chipmunk, she mumbles “Thanks” around her mouthful, taking it from him. Swallowing, she blows her nose with a honk.

He sits down next to her, shocking her. He never watches dramas with her. He finds them pedestrian and trite, especially the melodramatic ones she’s drawn to.

They eat their food, watching as the woman shrugs off her lover’s pleas to leave him. She declares she will fight for their relationship, even if he won’t. The episode ends with her marching toward a confrontation with his mother.

As the ending theme plays, the next episode starts to queue up automatically, only for Netflix to ask her if she’s still watching.

His snort in the sudden stillness is loud. “What a moron.”

Is he actually talking about the show? How…novel. “Him? Definitely.”

“No, I meant her. She's going to wreck her whole career over a guy. One that can't even stand up to his own mother.”

This is the most bizarre conversation they’ve ever had. “Yeah, but she loves him so much that she doesn’t care. It’s romantic.”

“Love won’t put food on the table or pay your rent.”

“But it can save lives.” She catches him rolling his eyes at the sentiment. “Plus, it’s a drama, it’s not supposed to be realistic.”

“You can say that again.”

She points the remote at the television screen, using the excuse not to look at him. Her voice is soft as she presses buttons. “She would do anything for their love.” She can certainly understand that.

There’s a pause, and he gets to his feet, gathering their empty bowls. As he passes her, he mutters, “She shouldn’t have to.”

The next episode starts to play, but she stares unseeing at the screen. She doesn’t know how to interpret his words. Was he talking about the character - or her?

In the end, it doesn’t matter. Not really.

She knows him, and more importantly, she knows herself. All sides of her, in the past and now.

She’s more than a plaything, a weapon to be used and discarded.

Her days of being a whore are over. Have been for a long time. She no longer wants to be that pathetic woman, begging for scraps of attention like a starving dog, down on her knees at his feet.

It nearly broke her before.

It killed her.

She can’t do it again. She won’t.

So she gets up, turns off the television, brushes her teeth, and gets into bed. Lays next to him. Just like she has countless times, in this life and the last. Listening to his breathing even out as he slips into sleep.

She stares at the ceiling. She no longer has to fear sleep, fear the nightmares that lurk in the darkness. They’re a part of her, now and forever.

So, she lays. And plans.


End file.
